The Case of the Abandoned Aussie

by B R Snow

  “But they’re of the softer variety. I refuse to do anything that could be called hardcore. I have my reputation as an actress to consider.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Completely understandable,” Josie said, chiming in with a wink in my direction.

  “So Mr. Crawford was your producer?”

  “Yeah. At least he was until we started living together. Since then, my career has been on hiatus.”

  “And now?” I said.

  “Now, I’m not sure,” she said, getting up to refill her glass. Josie and I waved off her offer of more champagne, and she sat back down at the table. “It’s going to come down to money. I don’t want to go back into acting, but I don’t have a lot of options. I’m not trained to do, well, anything.”

  I found myself feeling a touch of sympathy for her. I wasn’t exactly sure why. It certainly wasn’t the money question. She was wearing enough diamonds to fund a small war. Maybe it was because she seemed to have few options available to her. But, then again, she had made her own choices up to this point. She must have been satisfied with her role as the girlfriend, at least in the beginning.

  Be careful what you wish for in life because you just might get it, right?

  But before I had a chance to dig deeper into the source of my newfound empathy, the door leading into the dining room from the kitchen burst open, and an attractive woman in her fifties entered, followed closely by a very annoyed Rosaline.

  “Great,” Roxanne whispered, staring down at her lap.

  “Let me guess,” I whispered to her. “The ex-Mrs. Crawford.”

  “Who else?” Roxanne said.

  Mrs. Crawford stopped near the fireplace, surveyed the table setting, glanced back and forth between Josie and me, then focused on Roxanne.

  “Hello, Roxanne,” she said, managing to scowl and smile at the same time.

  It’s a tough expression to pull off. I know this because it had taken my mother years to perfect it.

  “Hi, Marge,” Roxanne said, briefly making eye contact then staring back down into her lap.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” Marge said. “What with you being in an upright position.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Marge,” Roxanne said as she fumbled for her champagne glass.

  Marge glared at Josie and me through narrowed eyes.

  “Do I know you two?” Marge said.

  “No, I’m Suzy,” I said. “And this is Josie.”

  “Okay,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at Rosaline. “Explain their presence.”

  “They’re the two women I mentioned over the phone. They were the ones who found Bob’s body.”

  “I see,” Marge said, continuing to take our measure.

  “And they have some questions about what to do with Chloe. I invited them to dinner so they could discuss it with you.”

  “Chloe?” Marge said, frowning. “Who’s that? Another of my ex-husband’s playthings?”

  “No, the dog,” Rosaline said.

  “Dog? He got a dog?” Marge said.

  “Yes,” I said. “A beautiful Australian Shepherd puppy.”

  “What happened, Roxanne? Were your scintillating conversational skills and cloying devotion enough to finally convince Bob about the fallacy of unconditional love between humans?”

  “No, he was well versed in that long before we even started seeing each other. After all, he did learn at the foot of the master,” Roxanne said.

  “Oh, good one,” I whispered to Roxanne.

  Josie, mid-swallow, choked on her champagne, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. I looked down the table at Marge. She was fuming but apparently didn’t have a good comeback. She sat down at the other end of the table and glared at Roxanne. Roxanne, already several glasses of champagne into her evening, was either oblivious to Marge’s stare or had decided to ignore her.

  “It’s gonna be a long night,” Josie whispered across the table.

  I nodded, but before I could respond, the evening took an even weirder turn. The kitchen door opened partway, and a familiar face appeared in the opening.

  “Here it is,” the man said, entering. “I don’t know how I ended up in the kitchen.”

  I nudged Josie’s leg with my foot under the table. She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at me confused.

  “Hello, everyone,” the man said. “I’m Jerry.” He glanced around the table, then beamed when his eyes landed on mine. “Well, if it isn’t my little Macadamia nut.” He made a beeline for the empty chair on my left and plopped down.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I’m working,” Jerry said, helping himself to a glass of champagne. “What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m trying to find a good home for a puppy,” I said.

  “Noble work,” he said, then took a gulp of champagne.

  “What are you working on?” I said.

  “Her,” he said, nodding at Marge. “Trying to get her finances in order now that, well, you know. Dead husband and all.”

  “Dead ex-husband,” Josie said.

  “Right,” Jerry said, leering at Josie. “You look fantastic tonight.”

  The kitchen door opened, and George, the harried older man we’d met briefly during our first visit entered. He glanced around the seating pattern and glared at us, obviously annoyed that all the seats at our end of the table were taken. He sat down next to Rosaline and Marge.

  “Okay, now that we’re all here,” Marge said. “We can eat.” She picked up a small dinner bell and rang it.

  “A dinner bell?” Josie whispered. “The kitchen’s eight feet away.”

  I laughed and got a glare from Marge. Apparently, silence-breaking laughter at the dinner table was a no-no.

  Carl, trailed by a woman in chef attire, entered carrying trays with steaming soup.

  “Great,” Josie said. “I’m starved.”

  I nodded and tried to remain patient. I was also starving, and I love soup.

  “So, Chef Claire,” Marge said. “What are we having for our first course?”

  “I thought I’d stay local in honor of Mr. Crawford. This soup was his favorite.”

  “Yuk,” Roxanne whispered.

  I glanced at her, then focused back on the chef.

  “This is walleye chowder. You’ll notice a touch of fennel and sherry that both soften and accent the flavor of the fish. Enjoy.”

  With that, the chef headed back to the kitchen. Carl finished serving everyone then sat down next to Rosaline. I couldn’t miss the glare he was getting from Roxanne.

  “Great. Fish soup,” I whispered.

  “I hate this soup,” Roxanne said.

  Josie chuckled as she attacked her bowl. I stared down at mine and toyed at it with my spoon.

  “So, Jerry,” Marge said. “Did you have any luck tracking that information down?”

  “Uh, no, not yet, Mrs. Crawford,” Jerry said. “I’ll get right back on it after dinner.”

  “Track what down?” Rosaline said.

  “Nothing that concerns you, Rosaline,” Marge said, waving her question off with the back of her hand.

  “If it deals with the company, I’m afraid that it does concern me,” Rosaline said.

  “Maybe it did two days ago, my dear,” Marge said, doing the scowl-smile thing again.

  Man, she was really good at it. My mother could learn a few tricks from her.

  “What does that mean?” Rosaline said, putting her spoon down and wiping her mouth.

  “It means that two days ago, you worked for my ex-husband. Now you work for me. At least you do for the moment.”

  “Work for you? Based on what?” Rosaline said.

  “His will. What do you think I’m basing it on?” Marge said.

  “He changed his will after your divorce,” Rosaline said. “At least that’s what he told me.”

  “Bob told people a lot of things,” Marge said. “He was very good at telling people what they wante
d to hear. Isn’t that right, Roxanne?”

  Roxanne, torn between responding or taking a mouthful of soup, chose the latter. She gagged a spoonful down. I admired her courage.

  “Have you seen this so-called new will?” Marge said, refocusing her attention on Rosaline.

  “No, not yet,” Rosaline said. “Bob said it was locked away for safe keeping.”

  “I see,” Marge said, then glanced quickly at Jerry.

  Jerry gave her the smallest of nods in return, but I caught it. I looked at Josie. She’d also seen it. Roxanne missed it since she was still gagging into her napkin. I noticed Josie had finished her bowl of the dreaded chowder and slowly slid mine across the table and pulled back her empty one. She shook her head at me, then started working on the fresh bowl.

  I sat quietly, doing my best to fend off Jerry’s flirtations as I listened to my stomach rumble. I studied Marge and Rosaline at the other end of the table. They chatted sporadically, but it was obvious that they shared a mutual contempt. Across the table from Rosaline, George, the harried one, ate with the expression of a man on death row.

  It had to be the fish chowder.

  Perhaps, now that Marge had arrived, from a career perspective, he was about to be a dead man. I knew they were all trying to deal with the death of a man who had been a major player in their lives, but there was no sense of any shared grief. As I watched, I was even more convinced that the candy magnate Crawford had been the victim of something other than an accidental drowning.

  Before I could dwell on my theory, the chef entered pushing a cart stacked with covered dishes. I leaned forward in anticipation, hoping for a steak, or perhaps pork tenderloin. I was so hungry I would have settled for a peanut butter sandwich. Then I sat back as I picked up the scent.

  “Ugh,” I whispered.

  “What?” Josie said, finishing the last of my chowder.

  I nodded at the cart.

  “Salmon.”

  “Yum,” Josie said, chuckling. “I guess it’s not your night.”

  Carl helped clear the table while the chef placed our entrees in front of us. I stared down at the golden piece of grilled salmon and listened to the ooohs and ahhs coming from Jerry and Josie. Even Roxanne was digging in with gusto.

  Traitor.

  I sat staring at my piece of salmon, then squirted lemon all over it and poked at it with my fork. Then I gave up and nudged Josie under the table with my foot. She looked up from her plate and nodded when I indicated that she should help herself to mine. I excused myself from the table and headed for the kitchen.

  Chapter 12

  I entered the massive kitchen and found it empty. I don’t know why I expected to see a bunch of kitchen staff bustling around. After all, there were only eight of us at the dinner table. Maybe it was because the kitchen reminded me of one you’d find in a restaurant. Maybe it was because of my perceptions about how the rich lived their lives, surrounded by a large collection of people there to do their bidding. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and my blood sugars had dropped to dangerous levels, reducing me to a babbling idiot.

  Then I smelled it. Immediately on point, I glanced around the kitchen for the source. Just as I spied the oven in question, the chef entered the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. She jumped back when she saw me, and it took her a moment to catch her breath. Then she smiled at me. It was the first genuine smile I’d gotten from anyone on the island.

  “Wow, you startled me,” she said. “I’m Chef Claire. Can I help you?”

  “I sure hope so,” I said, sniffing the air.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I forget to bring something to the table? Perhaps you need some more lemon for your fish?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “Please don’t take offense, but I hate fish. And when I use that term, I’m talking about an intense hatred.”

  Instead of being offended, she laughed.

  “I don’t like it either. But it was Mr. Crawford’s favorite. And since tonight’s dinner was supposed to be in his honor, I thought I should at least try to do my part.”

  “Was supposed to be in his honor?” I said, doing my best not to come across as too suspicious.

  “Yeah.”

  “And it isn’t?”

  “You’ve been sitting at the table. Does it seem like a fond farewell to you?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “It seems like a major annoyance for all of them. Sorry to change the subject, but am I smelling bacon?”

  “That’s my dinner,” Chef Claire said, heading to the oven. She opened it, and the smell was overpowering. “Bacon wrapped chili dogs. Care to join me?”

  I must have been spending way too much time with my dogs because my knees buckled, my tongue dropped, and I think I started drooling. Just call me Pavlov. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and nodded.

  “If you have enough,” I whispered as I stared at the six hot dogs lovingly wrapped with thick slices of bacon.

  “We have plenty,” she said, removing a tray of freshly baked rolls from another section of the oven. “I always make more than I can eat in one sitting. But then I have to hide the leftovers if I expect them to be here when I’m looking for a late night snack.”

  She cut open one of the hot rolls, slathered it with mustard, then placed one of the bacon wrapped dogs on top, and carefully covered it with a generous portion of chili.

  “You want to start with one?” Chef Claire said.

  “If I have to,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, staring at the steaming object of my desire in her hand. “One’s fine.”

  “How about two?” she said, laughing.

  “You read my mind,” I said.

  Chef Claire gestured at a large granite island surrounded by high-backed leather stools, and I took a seat. She placed the plate in front of me, then headed for the fridge. When she opened the door, I saw the inside shelves lined with bottles of maple syrup. She returned with bowls of potato salad and cole slaw. I waited until she joined me, then attacked one of the chili dogs. I murmured with delight, took a second bite, and sighed.

  “Good, huh?” Chef Claire said, quickly working her way through her first dog.

  “Best I’ve ever had,” I said, taking a moment to wipe my mouth before diving into the potato salad.

  “This used to be my signature dish,” she said, suddenly starting off into the distance.

  “Used to be?”

  “Well, I guess it still is in some ways. But when I had my food truck, this was the thing people always wanted.”

  “You had a food truck? Where was that?”

  “Los Angeles. That was where I met Bob. Mr. Crawford. Or as he used to say, that was where he discovered me. One day, he and Roxanne had one of these, and an hour later I was under contract as his personal chef.”

  “Impressive,” I said. “Mr. Crawford made you an offer you couldn’t refuse, right?”

  Chef Claire laughed, then started working on her second chili dog.

  “Yeah, I was doing well with the food truck, but when he said he’d double whatever I was making… well, you know the drill.”

  “So, you two were close,” I said.

  “At first, yes. Then Bob decided we should get really close.”

  “Ah, I got it,” I said, studying her closely. “How did Mr. Crawford handle rejection?”

  “Not well,” she said, taking a sip of water. “But as you can see, I have access to an impressive knife collection.”

  I laughed, then stopped when I realized I wasn’t sure if she was joking.

  “And I guess that wouldn’t have gone over well with Roxanne, either.”

  “Roxanne? That little golddigger is the least of my worries.”

  “She does seem pretty harmless,” I said, staring at the two remaining chili dogs.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Did Roxanne tell you her story?” Chef said, reading my mind and grabbing the remaining two chili dogs from the stov
etop. She handed me one and set the other on her plate. Since I was one dog ahead of her, I thought about slowing down, but then changed my mind.

  “You mean the story about how she met Mr. Crawford when he was producing one of her films?” I said, grabbing a chunk of chili that was trying to escape.

  “She met him when she was turning tricks outside my food truck,” Chef said, staring at me.

  “Really?”

  “She left that part out, huh? What a surprise.”

  “She was a hooker?”

  “Yeah, she was always hanging around at lunchtime. A lot of successful people ate at my food truck. I couldn’t get rid of her. I ended up calling the cops several times, but she always found a way to stay out of trouble.”

  “Found a way?”

  “Think about it,” Chef said, piling coleslaw on her plate. “I’m pretty sure Bob was about to cut her loose.”

  “Really, why?”

  “I’m not sure. After I turned him down, Bob didn’t share much with me. My guess is that it was one part boredom, one part the fatigue of dealing with Roxanne’s extracurricular activities.”

  “I see,” I said, finally slowing down my intake of food. “So what’s the deal with the ex-wife?”

  “Marge the Malevolent? What you see is what you get. There’s no mystery there. I’m sure she showed up just to make sure Rosaline and Roxanne don’t try to screw her out of what she thinks is still hers.”

  “You mean the company?”

  “All of it,” Chef Claire said, pushing her plate away. “Whew, I’m full.”

  “But they are divorced, right?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. Apparently, as rumor has it, Marge signed the divorce papers, but she never got a copy back with Mr. Crawford’s signature on it. If that’s true, all bets are off regarding who gets what.”

  “And what’s going to happen to those who end up getting nothing.”

  “You’re a smart woman,” Chef Claire said, grabbing both our plates and setting them in the sink. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s Chloe doing?”

  “She’s great,” I said. “You know, you’re the first person here who has asked about her.”

  “Does that surprise you? She’s a great dog. Bob never went anywhere without her.”